


Tranquility

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-26 03:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4988410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Getting Xanxus to relax is never an easy prospect even at the best of times. Squalo is sure it would be completely impossible without the assistance of the flames glowing pale around his good hand, and even then the first fifteen minutes of massaging the tension out of his shoulders felt more like a fight than a comfort." Squalo works out the worst of Xanxus's tension and Xanxus makes good use of his newfound comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tranquility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aceromanoffs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aceromanoffs).



It takes almost an hour for Xanxus to go quiet.

Getting the man to relax is never an easy prospect even at the best of times. Squalo is sure it would be completely impossible without the assistance of the flames glowing pale around his hand, and even then the first fifteen minutes of massaging the tension out of scarred shoulders felt more like a fight than a comfort. But Xanxus stopped actively resisting after that, and if the cursing held steady it’s hardly anything Squalo’s not experienced before. He let Xanxus keep talking rather than trying to fight the losing battle of persuading him to silence, growled insults right back at him as he pressed his weight against the knots twisted into the other man’s back, and sometime between the latest “Stupid shark” and the current moment the silence became comfortable, lost its edge as thoroughly as Xanxus’s back has lost its tension.

Squalo doesn’t comment on this. He keeps his mouth shut, lets the quiet spread out to create a rare moment of peace, and if he eases the pressure of his hand he lets the blue glow enveloping his fingers go brighter, the effect of his Rain flames seeping deeper into Xanxus’s body now that the other is too relaxed to resist their effect. Xanxus goes heavy against the mattress, even the almost-fists of his hands easing into calm, and Squalo is left to spread his fingers wide, to turn the force of his hand into a glide instead, until he’s trailing over the outlines of dark-burned scars instead of digging in against cramping muscles.

Xanxus is very still under his touch. Squalo thinks he may have fallen asleep; it’s not entirely impossible, wouldn’t even be the first time, and he doesn’t want to ask to check. He keeps his touch where it is, traces paths of calm across the scarred planes of Xanxus’s back, and lets the time stretch long and languid until he is drifting in a meditative state more reminiscent of practice with his sword than of any ordinary interactions with Xanxus.

There’s a rumble of sound in the air, a tremor that runs through the muscles under his palms. Xanxus’s arm shifts, his hand coming up to brace his palm flat on the bed; Squalo slides his hand down, catches his fingers at Xanxus’s hip instead of his shoulder, his own distraction evaporating with the possibility of movement and the potential danger that entails.

“Scum,” Xanxus growls against the mattress. The insult is familiar, the edge worn off with too much use, and it lacks any of its usual threat. It’s a purr more than a hiss, the sound turning itself over to hum vibration against the inside of Xanxus’s chest; Squalo can feel the sound in his bones, grounding out against his spine and radiating heat in its wake as it ripples through his blood.

“What?” he demands, easing his usual volume to something somewhat more acceptable under the circumstances. His shoulders are drawing tight in expectation of a fight; Xanxus doesn’t sound angry, doesn’t look aggressive, but if anyone knows how little that counts for it’s Squalo.

Xanxus pushes up against the bed. Squalo can see the motion in his shoulders, the effort of the action rippling through Rain-flame eased muscle and under scarred skin; it tips his balance sideways, leaves him fighting for stability, and then Xanxus says “Come here” and reaches out to drape an arm against Squalo’s waist and bear him down to the bed before he can even decide to make an effort to resist.

“Let me go,” he snaps, pushing against Xanxus’s shoulder, but the arm around him just shoves, twists him over and facedown against the sheets warmed by the weight of Xanxus’s body. There are fingers in his hair, a hand fitting against the back of his head, and then friction at his shoulder, the heat of Xanxus’s mouth and the drag of teeth over his skin. Heat scorches through Squalo’s veins, blows coherency out of his throat into a groan, and Xanxus is pushing up over him, shoving a knee between his so he can roll his hips forward against Squalo’s pants. Xanxus growls a low purr of satisfaction, Squalo groans against the sheets, and there’s a hand pressing into the bed over his shoulder, Xanxus leaning in over him while he reaches around and under to shove at the button of Squalo’s pants. Squalo hisses, the shape of protest without any real target, and he’s rocking back to meet the grind of Xanxus’s hips, pressing himself against the hot weight of Xanxus’s hardening cock while scarred fingers work his pants open for him.

“Shitty boss,” Squalo says, the words mostly muffled by the bed. Xanxus unfastens his pants, shoves forward for one lingering thrust against his thigh before drawing back so he can strip Squalo’s pants off. He’s moving more slowly than normal, the speed of his actions telltale for the lingering effect of the Rain flames on his body, but Squalo makes no attempt to gain the upper hand; all he’s interested in is turning his head sideways to shoot a glare in Xanxus’s direction and demanding, “Can’t you go any faster?” without any expectation at all of this having an effect.

Xanxus doesn’t even look up at him. He’s peeling black leather off Squalo’s legs, dragging the pants inside-out to cast over the edge of the bed; his own pants are next, the unusual pace of his motion apparently granting him the patience to bother with stripping down to bare skin instead of contenting himself with the minimum clothing removal to free his cock. Without the constant knots in his shoulders his movement are graceful, sweeps of fluid action as he pushes his pants free and tosses them aside; Squalo can see the suggestion of scars, jagged lines turned into curves over the flex of Xanxus’s shoulder as he comes back in to lean over the other man.

“Lube’s in the drawer,” Squalo suggests, turning the detail into the form of aggression so it won’t sound like an assumption of intimacy. It’s all but unmistakeable what Xanxus is planning, between the heavy heat of his cock and the dark attention in his eyes but--

“Shut up,” he orders, tangles a hand in Squalo’s hair to shove his face against the sheets. “I know where the damn lube is.”

It’s reassuring, although it’s not intended as such. Squalo’s shoulders relax against the bed, his spine prickling hot in anticipation; he tips his hips up, pushes his hand down against himself, and while Xanxus is retrieving the lube and spilling liquid messy over his fingers and Squalo’s back alike Squalo’s fitting his palm against his cock, sliding the flat friction against himself without a clear goal as yet. It’s enough that it’s sensation, the friction melting his thoughts out of clarity, and then there’s a hand at his hip, Xanxus’s weight settling against his thigh, and when slick fingers stroke against his entrance Squalo’s throat lets an involuntary moan fall against the mattress.

There’s a sound from over him -- a laugh, the grating drag of sincerity on the sound -- and Xanxus slides his fingers apart, angles just one to slide inside Squalo’s body. The stretch burns, aches up through Squalo’s shoulders, but the sound he makes is as much encouragement as protest, the way his cock twitches against his hand unquestioning approval. Xanxus’s hips rock forward, his cock sliding against Squalo’s thigh as if in promise of more, and he thrusts in deeper with his finger, turns his hand to press the slick of the motion against Squalo’s body. It feels better the deeper he goes, the ache of the stretch turning itself inside-out on the edge of anticipation; Squalo has to shut his eyes, has to focus his attention on the swell of hot air in his lungs just to remember where he is while Xanxus works him open with a patience he rarely demonstrates. By the time he adds a second finger Squalo is tense with expectation, his blood pounding heavy through his veins; the extra pressure is enough to force a groan of satisfaction from his throat, his response pulling another purring laugh from Xanxus’s. The knee between his legs slides up, Xanxus’s hips settle in closer against his, and when the other man rocks forward Squalo can feel the slick of precome catch and smooth against his skin to ease the motion. It’s almost in counterpoint to the slide of Xanxus’s fingers, the friction of that idle movement against Squalo’s skin forming a harmony, and the pattern is so soothing that Squalo’s not even stroking over his cock anymore as much as pressing his palm against the hot-swollen head and willing himself to patience.

Xanxus almost doesn’t give him warning. He’s falling into a rhythm with his hand, stretching Squalo more open with each forward motion of his wrist as he presses himself against the other’s skin, and Squalo is distracted by the friction, by the promise of Xanxus’s cock and the immediacy of his fingers. When Xanxus lets his hip go to push at his knee he obeys without thinking, sliding his legs wide until he can feel the pull of the angle ache up the inside of his thighs. Then there’s a movement, the shift of weight as Xanxus rocks back to fit both knees between Squalo’s, and when he leans in next his cock settles against Squalo’s ass, rides just over the movement of his fingers like he’s testing the motion. Squalo tenses with anticipation, bracing himself against a breaking wave, and Xanxus moves as if he’s made of liquid, sliding his fingers back and free and fitting his cock into their place in a nearly seamless motion. It’s so fast that Squalo’s still taking a startled inhale when Xanxus pushes into him; the air catches in his chest, rushes out in a breathless groan, and Xanxus growls pleasure over him and thrusts forward to press the shape of his cock into Squalo’s body. His hand comes down over the other man’s shoulder, his arm flexing as he leans in closer, and when he moves there’s a whole shudder of heat that runs through Squalo, Xanxus’s weight over him pressing him against the bed and pinning his hand into enforced stillness. Everything is hot, the friction of scars pressing against his skin and the slick thrust of Xanxus’s cock sliding into him and the low rumble of sound in the other’s chest, the purr of satisfaction spreading to fill the whole space of a room made small in comparison. Each of Xanxus’s movements feels like the tide coming in, the slow draw back of the ocean before it crashes forward, until Squalo’s panting breathing falls into pace with the rhythm, fits itself against the pattern of Xanxus’s will like so much else in his life.

Squalo loses track of time, caught in the weird in-between of pleasure and pressure and not quite enough of either. His cock is heavy against his hand, spilling slick against the press of his open palm, but Squalo can’t find the space to close his fingers, lacks the leeway to actually manage the stroking that might push him over the edge. It’s not painful as much as it is delayed, like the pleasure is collecting itself behind a barricade and waiting to crush him as soon as he lets it. He tries to tip his hips up, to give himself the space he needs to move, but he can’t get any traction against the sheets, can’t find the angle to offer any opposition to Xanxus’s weight pinning him down.

There’s a purr, rumbling near his ear and spilling down his spine. Xanxus rocks himself forward hard enough that Squalo slips a half-inch against the bed, and then, while he’s still gasping at the sudden break from the pattern, there are fingers at his skin, tracing out the dip along his hipbone to force down between his body and the sheets. Xanxus is still leaning against him, still pinning him entirely in place, but when his fingers find Squalo’s cock they close as if unaffected by the difficulty in motion, slide as if there’s no resistance but air. Squalo’s back arches, his body flexing all at once like he’s straining for traction against his own breathing, and Xanxus growls into his shoulder, thrusts heat into him and strokes pressure over him, and Squalo can feel all the pieces of himself coming undone from each other. It’s like dissolving, like being swept away by some unstoppable force, until when he tenses and groans and shivers into white-out heat it feels like he’s falling apart, like he might never be able to find the pieces of himself to put back together again. There’s still friction, too-much sensation crushing into him as Xanxus tenses over him and the low vibration of a groan into his shoulder as he comes, but for Squalo everything is still trembling into harmony, the rough edges of his world polished smooth as a stone turned over in the ocean.

Xanxus doesn’t move away as the tension of his movement gives way to the languid weight of post-orgasmic haze. He barely even shifts his hand enough to draw his arm into a hold around Squalo’s waist before he sprawls sticky-hot over the other’s body, his breathing ruffling ticklish against the hair caught at the back of Squalo’s neck. Squalo can feel sweat collecting against the curve of his spine, has to strain for a deep breath against Xanxus’s weight; his hair is a tangle over his shoulder, his legs aching from their open angle, and his hand is still pinned under him and starting to go numb with the awkward tension. There are any number of things he could do to be more comfortable: voice a protest, slide away to take a shower, even just free his hand to drag his hair up off his skin. But Xanxus is breathing calm against the back of his neck, his body slack and heavy with none of the tension that is usually there, and Squalo can’t find the motivation to disturb him.

The rare tranquility is worth the minor discomfort.


End file.
